


Disinterest

by visua1a2t



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Oblivious John, Trans Dave, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1916265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visua1a2t/pseuds/visua1a2t
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And if Dave was being honest with himself, he might even admit the little tilt of the cashier's lips was borderline cute, and that his eyes were big and bright and just begging to be stared into, or even the way Dave wanted to reach out to him--maybe because he was attractive or maybe because Dave was just so heart crushingly lonely that it physically hurt.<br/>But he wasn't, and really that guy was probably just another asshole anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disinterest

    There is a lot that can be said about the suave bundle of ironic appreciation known as the youngest Strider. It could take him six lengthy ramble raps to completely describe all of his tattoos and piercings, which cost him an arm, a leg, and several sleepless nights scratching records at his local club. Not to mention that all of his ink is painfully unironic, and that fact alone could go into detail to write and publish a twelve-long book series, a long awaited epilogue, and then sell its rights to a nobody director so they can botch the plot into a movie adaption for rebellious preteens and soccer moms alike to enjoy.

    There is a lot that can be said about his appearance, forgoing his body modifications, too, which, if he was being honest with himself, is caught somewhere between beach hobo and cheap hipster, but is definitely leaning towards pedophilic creature of the night. But he's very adamant about not being honest with himself, so when he rounds the corner and catches a glimpse of bleached hair, shining metal, and a pathetic paleness his computer screen has long since bleached into him reflecting from a shop window, he can say that he looks _the_ shit and not _like_ shit, which is really the key to being Dave Strider.

    Dave swears under his breath and tugs on his scarf, which is long since been need of replacement, but it's soft and warm, not to mention his wallet's stomach is way too empty for him to be using all of his green stuff on a less ragged scarf. But if there's one thing he really needed to invest in, it was clothes. Warmer clothes, to be precise. A Texan just wasn't meant to brave the Washington chill. Well, that, and milk. Which was the reason he was walking the street at too early in the morning.

    Lactose-free, almond milk, actually, was the reason he was bundled up from head to toe in whatever clothes he could find at too early in the morning while locals strolled in shorts too chipper and carefree for Dave to think they were in any sense sane.  As far as all the allergy tests he had as a kid, hobbled over on medical tables as he exchanged coughing mucus up for his inhaler, lungs too full of snot and airways too constricted to work regardless, he wasn't allergic to milk, but Dave swore up and down that it royally fucked his stomach whenever he drank it. Plus it kept really long in the fridge, which helped with his starving art student budget.

    It probably didn't help that when he was twelve his friend Jade Harley had dragged him to a cattle farm, and while Bessy's eyes had absolutely no effect on the buck-toothed, energetic bundle known as his only friend, her big, brown eyes nestled deep into his soul and took a firm hold on his dietary habits. If anyone asks, Dave'll say he _ironically_ doesn't eat meat and will deny being soft on anything with two eyes and a soul until the day he dies. If Dave was on any level honest with himself, he'd be able to say that him double checking his clothing's tags and labels on his hair care products to ensure nothing he wears has harmed an animal is him trying to be an okay person and not the hipster douche he seems himself as. Good thing we've already established that he's not honest with himself, in any form.

    Which brings us to Dave Strider, mission so close to completion with sunglasses pushed over his gelled hair so he can pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration at the incompetent cashier. Of course he gets the one employee who doesn't know how to use the scanner. He adds in a hard glare at the guy for good measure--and the cashier _stares_. Dave eyes blow up when he realizes what he's done and yanks his shades back in place in one practiced motion. He really should know better than to take them off. He blames the sleep deprivation.

    Dave believes in a God. Whether it be the all-caring, forgiving father that the Bible cites, or the angry, vengeful abomination his brother has been known to glare at the sky towards, he believes. He believes because Dave personally feels like his one and only source of amusement. You could blame this on a number of things; his childhood asthma, that was so bad he couldn't even go outside without a medical face mask during pollen season as a kid, his extreme social anxiety, which is why even during college, he only has one friend, who is on the other side of the country, probably enjoying hard liquor and replacement Striders, and there is definitely a case for the static and confusion between his crotch and brain, which lead to several panic attacks, a lot of internet research, and an awkward heart to heart with his bro, but even being born in a chic's body isn't why Dave thinks he's God's personal, one-manned version of _Who's Line Is It Anyway_.

    It's his eyes. Burning red, mutant eyes that made his Kindergarten teacher scream in fear at a six year old child. Violent red eyes that made his first crush, and several after that, flinch away in disgust. It was his eyes, loud and angry and red enough to make everyone glace over his inked and pierced skin to, like this cashier, this stranger, stare shamelessly open-mouthed directly into the devil's irises--in the middle of the convenience store at too early in the morning.

    Dave snapped his fingers in front of the guy's face, trying not to notice how his teeth were the same as Harley's, all two front incisors and none of anything else. He really missed her. She wouldn't have taken any of this bullshit. He can almost see her, sass screaming from the hand on her hip, finger pushing accusingly at the jerk's chest, and anger in her voice. God, he missed her.

    But he had to stand up for himself right now, which was never his forefront unless he had a katana in his hand. So he sighed and rolled belly over, because he was tired, physically and emotionally, and he missed his best friend, and he had just wanted some goddamn expensive ass milk. Dave was ready to walk out the store, milk be damned--he could eat his sugary kid cereal dry if he had to--when the cashier decided to grace reality once more with his presence.

        "Um," the guy blinked, his eyelashes too long for a boy, and Dave took note that this kid looked painfully feminine, but still managed to give off a loud, distinct male vibe. It only irked Dave more. Even on hormones for a few months, he still couldn't always pass. "Sorry. Is this it?" The guy gestured towards the unbagged milk with his head, black hair flipping slightly against his brown forehead with the movement, and even attempted what might have been the beginning of a smile. His voice grated against the headache that was forming.

    Dave just nodded, taking note that his face was still scrunched in frustration, but not caring to attempt any other expression. Even if his irises made priests all around the world gasp and openly pray to Jesus begging forgiveness for viewing the child of the Devil, this guy still deserved some Strider hostility for staring.

    Dave planted some money roughly the same amount that was due, grabbed the carton, and, if he was being honest with himself, skedaddled the hell out of there, shoulders arching up and head down, giving off a very unhappy cat vibe. But Dave firmly believes that equals the self respecting walk made up of long, graceful strides that led him out of the store, head held high. He'll swear on his grave he walked out the self respecting Strider he still pretends to be after all.

    And if Dave was being honest with himself, he might even admit the little tilt of the cashier's lips was borderline cute, and that his eyes were big and bright and just begging to be stared into, or even the way Dave wanted to reach out to him--maybe because he was attractive or maybe because Dave was just so heart crushingly lonely that it _hurt_. But he wasn't, and really that guy was probably just another asshole anyway.

    So Dave took his lactose-free almond milk home, forgoing the cereal that had caused him to want to both talk up and strangle a stranger, and shoved it in his fridge. He sighed, pushing his hand over his face and making his sunglasses clank on the ceramic tiles when they fell on the kitchen floor. He made a mental note to not step on them, and tried to force some sort of emotion about possibly damaging his beloved shades. Only indifference bubbled to the surface. Dave was making quite the friend out of indifference and it only made him miss Jade more. She always knew how to chase it away. He thanked himself for keeping the light off so his eyes wouldn't burn like he was staring wide-eyed towards the heart of a sun because of dim lighting. Dave didn't know if his eyes were always this sensitive, or if the shades made them so, but either way he couldn't handle much light without feeling like his retinas were melting in their sockets.

        "Should've got some Excedrin." Dave shoved both the heels of his hands into his eyes, grumbling at the pain in his head and at the bright white spots blooming in front of his vision for pushing too hard. He pushed harder. He was half debating whether to leave again to get some--maybe go to another store, hell he'd walk further if he had to--just to get out of this shitty apartment. He just sat down at his work space instead, trying to make sense of the doodles and papers strewn from one end of the desk to the other. He still didn't know what he wanted to do exactly. He knew what field he wanted to go into--the better word being _fields_. His childhood passions had carried over into the shit stain that could pass for his adult life. He's actually proud for already knowing both his major and minor, studio art and photography respectfully, and he still uses his talents mixing and making music to make money on the side where and when ever he could to pay for his obsession of both getting tattooed and tattooing. It was something he had picked up when he hit fifteen and honestly was much more his passion than anything else. He started with tattooing pigs at first, and even gained an apprenticeship before having to move to start here at Washington State. But now he's here, halfway through his first semester, and still couldn't text home to tell bro what he wanted to do with the degree he was busting non-existent balls to get.

    Either way he had to get started on this project. Dave resigned himself to call Harley tomorrow, not bothering to remember that he had promised himself to do that yesterday, and got to work.  

**Author's Note:**

> *DISCLAIMER* Along with not owning the characters (cough or portraying them correctly cough), any and all talk of Dave's transgenderism (is that a word?) is NOT the same in any one trans person. They are all different stories and blah blah dont sue me.
> 
>  
> 
> Also title might (prolly will) change
> 
> Updates will be inconsistent


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